


give me your answer, do

by Maculategiraffe



Series: it won't be a stylish marriage [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Captivity, Coercion, Devotion, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fealty, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Sexual Violence, Obedience, Oral Sex, Prostration, Pull it together ao3, References to Drugs, Slavery, Threats to Loved Ones, Why isn't there a fealty tag, Why isn't there a prostration tag, blue and orange morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: "The terms of your employment have altered somewhat," she says, and he feels a pulse of sheer freefalling terror, because the only thing that can mean is that something's happened to Harold, and of everything John never thought he could bear, that's the one thing he really can't. "Your agency has made the decision to... liquidate... certain of its assets. Including yourself and Mr. Finch.""Where's Finch?" he demands, sitting bolt upright, despite the pain, the exhaustion, the lingering grogginess from the needle. If Finch is dead, John officially doesn't care whether he lives or dies, and if he's been sold as a sex slave to someone named Daisy, he's definitely taking her out with him.





	give me your answer, do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/gifts), [Code16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/gifts).



> O hai fandom
> 
> Listen I'mma be extremely honest: I've watched like four episodes of this show, enough to be like "holy crap these two," and then I got online and read some dark and hurty fanfic, and then I wrote this. So I apologize if anything's badly off. Someday I may write very well-thought-through and well-researched fanfic for this show, but today is not that day.
> 
> The basic idea here (inspired by the aforementioned dark and hurty fanfic, particularly Code16's [As Told](http://archiveofourown.org/series/398521) and [Have to Offer](http://archiveofourown.org/series/395383) [mind the tags]) is that Reese and Finch spent some time in the power of an ill-defined (by me, I'm sure it's defined somewhere) Evil Agency that used and badly abused Reese as a sex toy/sexual operative, and that Reese submitted to this treatment because the Evil Agency also had Finch in its power and he was determined to protect Finch to whatever extent his own submission allowed.
> 
> Don't trust me, I have no idea what I'm doing. Do mind the tags.

The needle knocks him out altogether this time, and when he wakes up, it's on a bed, in a room where he's never been before, with someone he's never seen before. A woman. About his age, probably, maybe a little younger. Round-faced, sweet-looking. Which means nothing. Dressed formal-professional: white blouse, navy jacket. Little pearl earrings. She's sitting on a chair by the bed, looking at him. 

He's not on the bed, he's in it, under sheets and a blanket, and he freezes, because that's a punishable offense, hiding himself away, but he was unconscious, he didn't do it. Which doesn't mean he won't be punished. 

He doesn't dare move, even to expose himself properly. He waits: for orders, or for her to take what she wants. 

Where is he?

"Do you prefer John," she asks, "or Mr. Reese?" She has a soft, well-modulated, formal-sounding voice.

"Your wish," he says, automatically.

She smiles slightly. "Yes, I'm aware. I asked for your preference."

"John." It's shorter. Less ironic. It doesn't matter, anyway.

"John," she says. "You may address me as Daisy."

He almost smiles. Comes a little too close. _Daisy?_ What the fuck. OK.

"Yes, Daisy."

She does smile. It's a sweet smile, an innocent smile, a smile that belongs on someone named Daisy. Not one that belongs in the same room as him. 

What is she going to do with him? 

Despite everything, he's almost afraid. 

His body hurts. Everywhere. There's hardly an inch that isn't already so sore that even lying on his back, even the blanket over him, is added agony. Anything but unconsciousness is agony. Anything she does to him, even if she isn't one of the really imaginative ones, is going to have him in tears. He wonders if she'll like that. He won't be able to help it, either way. 

"The terms of your employment have altered somewhat," she says, and he feels a pulse of sheer freefalling terror, because the only thing that can mean is that something's happened to Harold, and of everything John never thought he could bear, that's the one thing he really can't. "Your agency has made the decision to... liquidate... certain of its assets. Including yourself and Mr. Finch."

"Where's Finch?" he demands, sitting bolt upright, despite the pain, the exhaustion, the lingering grogginess from the needle. If Finch is dead, John officially doesn't care whether he lives or dies, and if he's been sold as a sex slave to someone named Daisy, he's definitely taking her out with him.

"He's safe," she says calmly. "I made arrangements to acquire both of you."

That has to be a lie. The agency would never let Finch go. John, sure, but Finch knows too much. If he's left the agency, it's in a body bag.

"It wasn't easy," she says. "It was both expensive and time-consuming, and I had to call in quite a few favors. I'll expect gratitude, once you've seen him."

She picks up a remote control from the table beside her, touches a button, and a screen on the wall opposite flickers to life. It shows Finch, sitting and staring into the screen, at an angle that suggests he's sitting at a computer; he looks miserable for a second, before his whole face lights up and he cries out, "John!"

"Hello, Mr. Finch," says Daisy, beside John. "I told you you could see him as soon as he was awake."

"John, where are you?" Finch demands.

"He doesn't know," says Daisy. "Any more than you do."

"John, are you all right?"

John nods. He can't speak. He hasn't been allowed to talk to Finch since-- since before--

"Say something," says Finch, sounding desperate.

"Hey," says John hoarsely, and clears his throat. "Hey, Harold. Yeah, I'm OK. You OK?"

"I'm fine," says Finch. "John, listen to me. Under no circumstances are you to allow yourself to be coerced into-- into anything at all-- by threats to me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. You are to do the same, do you understand me?"

John smiles. There are tears in his eyes. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I understand. Thanks, Harold."

"That's enough for now," says Daisy, and reaches for the remote.

"Wait--" says Finch, just before the screen goes black.

"As you see, your Mr. Finch is safe," she says. "And he will remain so, as long as you remain compliant. Do you understand?"

He nods.

"You are permitted to ask for clarification," she says. "Unless instructed otherwise, you may speak, at any time, and with no restrictions on the content of your speech."

He's tempted to test that immediately, but he doesn't want to push as much as he wants to know--

"What do you mean, safe?"

"He won't be hurt, or deprived," says Daisy. "He'll be made as comfortable as possible, and reasonably free to pursue his work. Unless you disobey me, or defy me, or otherwise displease me."

So the same terms as before, but-- more generous, at least in theory. He'd never received any promises about Finch's actual safety or comfort before. Just the hope that Finch was at least a little better off than if John wasn't-- where he was. 

"Thank you," he says, and means it.

She smiles again. "You're welcome, John. Get up."

He's wobbly from the needle and the pain, prays to whatever hell-gods rule his life that "Daisy" won't find herself displeased by his clumsiness. Extricates himself from the blanket. Assumes he's to stand up on the same side of the bed as her, present his body to her regard. Stands, trembling with exhaustion and agony and desperation. He'll do whatever it is she requires. He knows it's going to be bad. It's always bad.

"That's very good," she says, smiling up at him. "Turn around, show me your back and your ass."

He does.

"Good. Turn back around now, face me."

He does. She's still smiling. She looks happy. It's going to be _very_ bad.

"Get back into the bed," she says. "Under the sheet and the blanket. Head on the pillow. As if you were going to sleep. On your back or stomach, however you prefer to sleep."

On his stomach, when he's given the choice. He can't remember the last time he was. But he obeys her. Lies down, pulls the sheets and blankets clumsily over himself, presses his cheek down into the pillow, waits. 

"Can you see the clock on the nightstand from your position?"

He can. Wasn't looking until she said that, but his eyes adjust, and he can see it. It's a digital readout, blue display. 9:32, and a little dot by the PM.

"You're going to stay here for the next eight hours and twenty-eight minutes," she says. "By 'here,' I mean in this bed, and in this approximate position. Minor shifts in position-- stretches-- will be tolerated, but excessive tossing and turning will test my patience, and sitting up, or standing, will be considered defiance and punished accordingly." There's the slightest pause before she adds, "You are permitted to sleep."

"What if I'm not awake at six?" he asks, because she said he could ask, and she says, "It won't be considered disobedience. I've given you permission to sleep. When I want you awake, I'll wake you."

There's a trick here, a trap. There has to be. More than eight hours, lying still. In a bed. To sleep if he wants to. 

"Close your eyes."

He closes them.

"You were a very expensive purchase, John," she says. 

He feels a hand on his hair. Doesn't flinch. Waits. 

Fingers card gently through his hair. There's no yank, no sudden cruel pressure. He's trembling again. 

"All your sessions are recorded, you know. I've watched them all."

It's barely even an extra flicker of humiliation, at this point. He figured they were recorded. Figured they were shown. Why waste good porno, or such a thorough demonstration of the goods and services available to valued clients of the organization.

"You're a man of exceptional courage," she says. "And of-- quite extraordinary-- loyalty. A magnificent creature."

She sounds like a breeder, assessing a thoroughbred stallion. Halfway between clinical and dreamy.

"And I intend to enjoy you," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. 

............................................... 

No one fucks him, all night.

In the morning, she wakens him by peeling the blankets back from his body. He's on his side, but he barely has time to panic that he moved from his appointed position in his sleep before she says, warmth in her voice, _"Good_ boy. Stay still a moment for me."

He does, except for the trembling, which might be permanent. She scares him worse than any of the ones who just wanted to hurt him. 

But if she's telling the truth-- if Finch is safe, as long as she's pleased-- then he doesn't really have any choice but to try and please her.

"Good," she says. "Are you hungry?"

"Of course," he says, impatience glowing through-- what does she fucking think?-- and then bites his own insolent tongue. She's laughing. What does that mean?

"Of course," she agrees. "Stupid question. More of a rhetorical sally. But you're right, we don't need to bother with that kind of thing, do we?"

He shakes his head.

"Sit up," she says, and he obeys, wincing slightly. She does something behind him. "Lie back."

He does, onto propped-up pillows, as if he's an invalid. 

"Don't move," she says, and leaves the room.

Now that he's slept, now that he's seen Finch, he has the wherewithal to notice a bit more about the room. It's clean, impersonal, but furnished and upholstered, like a hotel room. There's a door, other than the one she left through, that he can see through to what looks like a bathroom. There's furniture with drawers; there's a bookshelf, with books on it. There's the screen he saw before, on the wall opposite him. It's blank.

She comes back, before long, with a tray. A breakfast tray. Like some old magazine ad, featuring a lace-trimmed bed jacket, although she hasn't brought him one of those. There's a glass of what looks like orange juice, a cup of what looks like coffee. There's things that look like toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes. That's what they smell like, too.

She puts the tray over his lap. It has little legs that rest on either side of him. There's a fork, a knife, a napkin.

He looks up at her.

"Eat," she says, so he does.

"I thought I'd put something special together, for our first morning," she says cheerfully, as he eats, wincing slightly while he waits for the trap to reveal itself. The filth in the food, or the drugs: something foul he'll have to choke down, something that will burn as it hits his throat, make him vomit, invite the delicate reprimand: _John! Bad boy. Look what you've done._ He prays she'll make him lick it up, make him cut himself with a shard of the glass she'll make him break, do anything to him, not to Harold. 

The food tastes fine, though, tastes better than fine, tastes wonderful, and she's chattering on, "You mustn't expect something like this every day. But we need to get your strength back up. I'm going to expect a great deal from you, eventually. We'll start slowly."

He eats steadily. Then he stops-- his stomach is cramping, not because the food is bad but because he's not used to eating so much at a time, not unless the game was to make him vomit-- and says, "Do I have to finish?"

She smiles at him. "No. You may stop when you're satisfied."

He puts the knife and fork down. She takes the tray, sets it down by the door, comes back to the bedside and sits down in her chair. She's dressed the same as before-- white blouse, jacket, little pencil skirt. Leather shoes, with a little heel.

"You're doing very well," she says. "Do you have any questions for me?"

He shakes his head. 

"Anything in this room is yours to use," she says, and he almost whimpers before he realizes she didn't say _on yourself,_ didn't order him to use everything. He doesn't know what's in the drawers, but he can imagine. "After I leave, take a shower. You may use anything in the bathroom, but you aren't required to use anything in particular. After you shower, you may dress if you wish. You are not permitted to leave this room. You may drink as much water as you wish, and use the toilet when you feel the need." She gives him an impish little smile. "It probably goes without saying, but this room is under surveillance, so don't do anything you don't want me to see you do."

He nods. It's kind of nice of her to give him the heads up, although yes, he would have assumed.

"Good," she says, and stands. "Do you need anything before I go?"

He shakes his head, and she goes, without saying anything else. He hears the door lock behind her.

 ............................................................

He obeys her, of course. Showers with hot water, uses the shampoo and conditioner and soap and razor in the shower. Towels dry. The towels are nice, big, good quality. There's a toothbrush and toothpaste, so he brushes his teeth. 

Then he explores the drawers. They're not full of toys and implements, the way he would have assumed. They're full of men's clothes-- shirts, jeans, underwear, socks. As if a person lives here.

He gets dressed. It's rare he has permission. Might as well take advantage. Until she, or someone else, shows up to cut the clothes off him. The ones he pulls on-- T-shirt, jeans-- fit him pretty well.

He looks at the remote control. 

She didn't say he couldn't touch it. Couldn't try--

But what's the point? What would he say to Finch? _It's OK. I'm gonna keep you safe._ Finch doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't need to see how the sausage is made. As it were.

Instead, he walks over to the bookshelf, plucks off a book at random. It's fat and squat, with small print and a cryptic title: _The Unconsoled._ Might as well, until the next thing happens.

 

The next thing that happens, instead of someone coming in to fuck him or otherwise hurt him, is that Daisy comes back with lunch on a tray-- a burger and fries, of all things. He's on the bed when she comes in, but he goes to the floor as soon as he sees her, touching his forehead to the rug. Always best to be on the safe side.

The floor creaks as she crosses it. 

"Kneel up," she says, and when he obeys, she leans down and sets the tray on the floor in front of him. Sits down again, in her little chair.

"Eat," she says, and he does. 

It's good. He hasn't had a burger in a long time. This one is good. Freshly made, not McDonald's. There's ketchup on it, mustard; he tastes a pickle. Thick-cut fries, the kind they call hand-cut. 

"As I said before," Daisy remarks, as he eats, "you mustn't expect this kind of thing every day. You'll eat regularly-- you don't have to earn that-- but usually it will be healthier fare than this. But you're adjusting so well, and I thought this might be a nice treat."

He swallows. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says. "Have you had enough for now?"

He nods, and she takes the tray, and sets it on the end table. 

"Tell me, John," she says gravely. "Do you feel I'm treating you well, so far?"

He nods. What else can he do?

"Do you have any requests?"

He shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he says, because what could he ask for? It's not like he'd trust any promise she gave him, about the future.

She nods, frowning. "Let me clarify. If you could please me very, very well, well enough to earn-- let's say-- three small favors-- what would those favors be?"

He doesn't need to say that he can't earn anything from her because she can take whatever she wants from him, without doing anything for him in return. She knows that. She said _if_.

"What's a small favor?" he asks.

She smiles. "Good question. But I'm curious to hear how you'll answer. How you'll define the parameters I've given you."

He looks at the half-finished burger. He likes burgers, but if this is her idea of special-treat food, Harold's probably miserable. 

"What are you feeding him?" he asks, and she cocks her head, curious. "Strip steak, OK? Good quality. And wine with dinner. Fancy wine." If she bought him and Finch from the agency, he can't imagine money's any object. "Like those six-hundred-dollar bottles rich people drink."

"Every night?" she asks, amused. 

"Not steak every night," he says. "But, you know. He likes-- nice things."

"What else?" she asks.

"He likes nice clothes," he says. "Suits and ties." On the screen, he was wearing a T-shirt, the same kind John's wearing now, and, although he couldn't see, probably jeans. John's never seen Harold in jeans.

Daisy nods. "One more."

"Newspapers," John says. It's a dumb little thing, but he knows Harold must miss it, and she did say small favors. "He likes the classy ones. The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. The Guardian. New ones, today's, not old ones."

She looks at him carefully. "Nothing for yourself?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't matter. These _are_ for him. She wouldn't understand.

Daisy smiles.

"Do you think you can earn all three?" she asks.

"Depends on how generous you are," he says, because doesn't everything.

She stands up, unbuttons the side of her skirt, unzips it, and pulls it down. Steps out of it, then her underwear, which is plain blue cotton, functional. She's not waxed or shaved, but she's trimmed a bit. Clean, looks like.

He doesn't move. Waits for orders. Pussy doesn't hurt, in and of itself, so people usually supplement it with something. Something inside, burning or freezing, or clamps they can twist while he licks, or just a good swift kick to the balls so he can't really breathe first.

She sits back down, on the edge of her chair, spreads her legs. Is that an order?

"Lick," she says.

Well, that's an order.

While he licks, she says, "This is simply an opportunity to earn additional favors. There's no punishment for failure. Only for disobedience, and you haven't been disobedient, not at all. You've been doing beautifully. Listening, obeying my instructions. I'm very pleased with the way you've been speaking up, answering me, and asking questions."

That's good, but it's also vaguely worrying that she's capable of saying all this while he's very actively trying to get her off. He's licking, sucking, lapping, kissing, alternating long strokes with his whole tongue along the length of her vulva with quick sipping almost-nibbles of her clit, and she's saying, "All you have to do, to keep your friend safe, is be obedient. If you try and fail at this task, he won't suffer for it."

Which-- along with her conversational tone-- can only mean he's definitely currently failing.

Which shouldn't be upsetting-- not if she really isn't going to punish him or Harold-- but is. She's giving him a chance to do well, and he's doing badly. A chance to earn something, something extra for Harold, things that might make him happy, and he's earning nothing.

He jumps, slightly, when her hands come to rest on his hair.

"Good boy," she coos softly. "Such a good boy, John." 

That's slightly encouraging, he guesses.

He can't see the clock, and there's no real point in counting seconds or minutes down here-- he's here until she lets him up, which could be in thirty seconds or three hours. Or thirty hours. She could make him piss himself, here on his knees, and then make him suck it off the floor; piss in his mouth and make him swallow it. She can have food and water brought for herself, while he licks. Take a goddamn nap, while he licks. Wait for him to pass out, then punish him-- or Harold-- for disobeying her order to lick.

She's still stroking his hair, and after what's maybe a few more minutes, she says, "You may stop whenever you wish."

He keeps going. That wasn't an order. He's damned if he's giving up yet, not if he doesn't have to. If he can earn anything for Harold. He thinks of Harold, pictures his face. Pictures him reading a newspaper, with a glass of wine.

"Mmm," she says, possibly pleased, possibly just interested.

He keeps going, and after a few more minutes, she makes a noise, and says, "Yes, yes. Good boy. Good--"

He licks with redoubled energy, his jaw aching but what else in life is new, and after a bit she goes, "Ah, ah, _ohhhh!_ " and the taste of her changes.

He keeps licking, as she shudders and groans, keeps licking as she says breathlessly, happily, _"One!"_

......................................................................... 

After three, she orders him to stop, leans down, cups his face in her hands, and kisses him right on his pussy-wet mouth.

"Three," she says again, beaming at him as she lets go. "Well done. How hard was that?"

He stares up at her, not knowing what she means, wondering if wiping his mouth with his hand will be taken for insolence. Decides not to risk it.

She eyes him thoughtfully. "What's the hardest thing you can imagine having to do?"

He swallows. She hasn't minded appeals yet, so he risks asking, quietly, "Do I have to say?"

She considers that for a moment, and then says, "No. Just so you have it in your mind. And now think of the thing you want to do most in the world."

He doesn't want to say that one to her, either.

"All right," she says. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being the thing you want most and ten being the hardest, how was that?"

He thinks about it, thinks about lying to flatter her, or lying to protect himself, finally says honestly, "Six."

"I can work with that," she says, stands, and begins dressing herself again. "Mr. Finch will have the amenities you've earned. Until further notice."

He looks at her, trying to read her face. "So those were small favors?"

"Oh, yes," she says, smiling at him. 

"Wait." He has a terrible thought. "Please-- please don't tell him-- they're from me. That I, I earned them." Harold wouldn't like that. John disobeying his direct order, not to do exactly what he's doing. It might even annoy him enough to spoil his pleasure in the gifts.

"Are you asking me for another favor?" she asks.

He curls down at her feet. Forehead to the ground. Lips to the ground. He doesn't dare presume to kiss her shoes without permission. 

"You want to earn more?" she asks, above him.

He lifts his head, just a little, says, "Please, ma'am. Daisy. I'll-- please."

 _I'll do anything_ being, of course, redundant.

"Stand up," she says briskly.

He obeys. Stands before her, head bowed.

"Take off your clothes."

 

...........................................................................

 

Months later, as she strokes his hair, he says, "Why 'Daisy,' for God's sake?"

She giggles. She's just taken him down from one of the aerial silk poses, laid him down on the bed, his muscles jumping. He still doesn't understand what she gets out of having him hang in midair for three hours without letting himself twitch, but then, there's a lot he doesn't understand. 

Whatever, she's happy. Satiated. He's earned favors. Not sure how many, but she'll let him know. 

"It seemed non-threatening," she says. "So did the face. You don't like it?"

"What do you really look like?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

She smiles at him. "I suppose your story about Zeus and Semele has some basis in fact. Except that I have no intention of destroying a creature I hold so dear."

"I was hoping it was more of a Psyche and Cupid type thing," he says, and she laughs again.

"That you might be abandoned to Venus' cruel tutelage?" she says fondly. "No, John, I've no intention of ever giving you up."

"Ever?"

She caresses him, not with her hand this time, but with a wave of protective tenderness that passes over him like a memory. 

"We don't live forever," she says, "but we live much, much longer than you. And you're the purest, sweetest source I've ever found."

"Source of what?" He's wondered for awhile. It isn't as simple as vampires drinking blood, leaving little puncture wounds in the neck. He doesn't feel drained when she's done. Tired, sometimes, in a good way, like after a run. Or after sex. Sometimes it is sex, or hard exercise, or something stranger. Stress positions, sensory deprivation, sensory overload. Pain, sometimes, although she says it's not the pain itself she needs: it's the stress, and the effort. That, and the knowledge that he's doing it for Harold.

"I'm not sure what the word is," she says. "Devotion? But that's imprecise. We used to say _fealty,_ but that's old-fashioned, now. 'Protect and serve'? Does that mean anything to you?"

"That's the cops," he says. "The LAPD."

"That's not right, then." She's quiet for a minute. "Brienne of Tarth. Bodyguard kink?"

He grins despite himself. It's less unnerving than it used to be, when she rummages through his head. He doesn't feel it, the way he does when she feeds; he only knows she's been in there because she lets him know.

"Does that make Finch the Kingslayer?" he jokes.

"Heavens, I hope not," she says. "But you two were quite a find. Worth everything I paid."

"Thank you," he says. He's content, lying here. She's happy with him. Finch is safe. 

"He asked for you again, today," she says casually, as if to ruin his calm. "He asks for you every day."

"You show me to him, don't you?" That's one of the things he's earned. Finch gets to see him every day, once a day, but only at carefully chosen moments-- chosen by Daisy, so they don't look posed, but to John's specifications-- when John's fully dressed, reading one of his books, or eating, or peacefully asleep. She promises never to show him looking unhappy.

"Yes," she says. "But he wants to see you in person." She scratches lightly at his scalp. "I'll give you that, you know, sweet John. If you ask it."

He shakes his head. 

"What's the hardest thing you can imagine?" she asks. He doesn't know why she still asks, sometimes. He knows by now she already knows the answer.

"Please," he says, shorthand by now for _don't make me say it_ , and for _don't ask it of me,_ and for _don't ask the next question._

"What do you want most in the world?" 

"Please," he whispers, under her hand. 

"Someday I'll ask them both of you," she says, and laughs as he closes his eyes. 


End file.
